


...And Then See To All The Rest

by methylviolet10b



Series: Transposition [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 23:50:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes waits, watches, tends, and does some mental accounting. A fairly pointless and plotless scene between Chapter 8 and the epilogue of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/330996">Transposition</a>. If you haven't read that, you probably don't want to read this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	...And Then See To All The Rest

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt: 
> 
>  
> 
> PROMPT: "Is that __(item name)__ supposed to be _(doing that) ?"  
> Fill in the blanks with whatever you like, and then go to town.

 

 

“Holmes?”

The voice was faint, weak, and so hoarse as to be nearly unrecognizable. Nonetheless, Holmes’ head snapped upright in a heartbeat, and his eyes darted to the figure in the bed, propped up by nearly every pillow to be found in 221. “Watson,” he sighed in open relief as he saw his friend’s eyes were open at last. Hazy, fogged with pain and illness and drugs, but open and vaguely aware. “You’re safe, dear fellow. We’re at Baker Street. And you’ve caught quite the case of influenza.”

That was hardly the only thing amiss with his dear friend, of course. Holmes had made a detailed inventory of all the ills Watson had suffered: bruises and chafing around his wrists, showing he had been bound at some point; more bruises on his forearms and swollen, scraped knuckles, demonstrating that he had fought back against multiple attackers; the telltale pinprick of an injection site and his prolonged unconscious stupor, telling as plain as words that he’d been drugged; and the horrible, wretched swelling and discoloration of the flesh around his scarred shoulder, whispering of more sinister torments. And that was simply the physical ills. What Watson had suffered mentally at the hands of his sadistic kidnapper…well, those questions would have to wait.

But when he _did_ know all, Holmes would add that to the accounting. He would sum it up, total it, add suitable interest…and take every single iota out of King’s hide.

“You found me,” Watson mumbled, drawing Holmes’ attention back to the present.

“Yes, thanks to you. That was a brilliant bit of subterfuge, my friend, concealing the address in code and hiding it under the date.”

“Knew you’d notice.” Watson’s lips turned up in the faintest shadow of his usual grin. He took a slightly deeper breath, then convulsed nearly double with coughing.

Holmes steadied him through the fit, helping him to stay upright. “Easy, Watson,” he murmured helplessly. He could feel his friend’s fever burning through the thick cloth of Watson’s warmest nightshirt. Anstruther had muttered dire things about possible bronchitis, pneumonia, and other complications. Holmes was determined to prevent them if at all possible. “When you’ve got your breath back, you should drink some of the medicine Anstruther has left for you. It will help with the cough and your fever. And Mrs. Hudson has kept a pot of soup hot for you, for whenever you awoke. You need nourishment.”

“Thank you,” Watson whispered after his coughing finally subsided.

How like Watson, to thank him for the merest trifles, as sick as he was, after everything he’d been through. “Think nothing of it.” Holmes busied himself with fetching the glass, the water-pitcher, and the packet of powdered medicine from the bedside table.

“Holmes?” Watson’s whisper was, if anything, weaker than before, but Holmes heard it anyway.

“Yes, dear fellow?”

Watson raised one hand a fraction. “Is that beaker supposed to be simmering like that? And why do you have one of your chemistry exper-“ The rest of Watson’s sentence was lost to yet more coughing.

Holmes forced himself to finish mixing Watson’s medicine instead of darting back to his friend’s side. He couldn’t stop Watson’s cough. He _could_ make sure Watson got his medicine as quickly as possible. “That’s not a chemistry experiment,” he corrected. “It’s a medical experiment. Anstruther said a pan of simmering water might ease some of your congestion. That is hardly practical given the limitations of your bedroom. I determined that a flask over a burner might serve just as well. Mrs. Hudson insisted on adding dried eucalyptus leaves. I have been alternating between plain water vapor and the eucalyptus-infused mixture. So far, the results have been inconclusive.” Holmes used his running monologue to distract Watson from his cough and from the awkward details of helping his friend drink his medicine. “Now that you’re finally awake, you’ll be able to give me some direct data on the relative effectiveness of the different compositions, if any difference exists.”

“Oh. Of course.” The answer was positive, but his tone was flat, his eyes incurious, dull. Watson was so weak, so limp, so terribly unlike himself.

But he was _alive_ , and he was _here_ , and he _would_ get well. Holmes would see to it. And then, together, they would see to all the rest.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 30, 2011


End file.
